


Clinomania

by pyrchance



Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Depression, Gen, M/M, Post-Break Up, Pre-Slash, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:08:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27807319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrchance/pseuds/pyrchance
Summary: Mikey isn't ready to get out of bed.Patrick and Pete decide to join him.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Mikey Way/Pete Wentz
Comments: 8
Kudos: 30





	Clinomania

**Author's Note:**

  * For [throwupsparkles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/throwupsparkles/gifts).



> The prompt was Mikey Way with a dash of clinomania – n. an excessive desire to stay in bed.

The doorbell rings and Mikey Way buries his head further into his pillow.

His bedroom is shaded and gray, his sheets are soggy with sweat, and Mikey doesn’t give a single fuck about any of it. He’s not moving. Anyone who could get him out of bed already has a key and Mikey isn’t currently talking to any of those people. It could maybe be Gerard testing the boundaries of Mikey’s tantrum, except that Mikey is especially not talking to his brother and had made that explicitly clear two nights ago when he’d broken his phone by throwing it across the room.

The point is, Mikey is not moving from his mattress until he’s starving, has to piss, or dies, and quite frankly the latter is not quite as sarcastic as it ought to be, even inside his own head.

It’s therefore a bit unnerving when he hears his front door jiggle and a voice that is definitely not his brother or Frank or Ray call out his name. His full name.

“Uh. Mikey Way?”

It’s a voice he knows but doesn’t know. It doesn’t immediately send of warning bells in his head, even though that voice should definitely not be in possession of a key.

Mikey still is half-heartedly puzzling this over by the time he hears the creak of his floorboards as the intruder walks in. He doesn’t move as whoever it is opens up the various doors down the hallway. He closes his eyes and thinks maybe this is the moment he kicks it. It is briefly amusing to think that being murdered in his own bed is somehow less depressing than half of the more likely options on his death bingo card.

Still, he’s not so far gone that he doesn’t squint his eyes and tense as the door to his bedroom opens slowly. A hat enters first, riding on top of an impossible idea. It takes Mikey just a moment longer to realize he has locked eyes with Patrick Stump of Fall Out Boy fame standing just inside his doorway.

“Oh good. You’re here.” Patrick lets himself into Mikey’s bedroom with way more confidence than Mikey remembers him ever having. Granted, it’s been over three years since their two bands had been in a room together, but Mikey has a knack for people. He doesn’t forget.

Somehow he doesn’t talk or protest either as Patrick makes his way closer to the bed. He’s holding a white plastic baggy that steams as he sets it down on the bedside table.

“Your brother sent me over here,” Patrick explains, voice pitched low like he’s matching the tone of the room. Then he cocks his head, mouth quirking. “Well, he called Pete who called me. Gerard’s worried about you. Pete couldn’t come by. He’s got the kids. So he sent me over instead.”

Mikey hasn’t heard from Pete Wentz outside of a few rare text messages in even longer than three years. It’s enough of a shock that he finally manages to raise his head enough to croak. “Why?”

Patrick’s face doesn’t show any confusion. He just unties the knot on the plastic baggy, releasing more steam, before straightening up.

“I guess I have the experience,” he admits with a crooked little grin. Then he throws his thumb at the bag and shrugs. “That’s miso soup. Sorry if you’re vegan. I couldn’t remember. Is that your phone?”

This feels like an insurmountable wall of speech. Mikey can’t Mikey can’t do anything more than blink, but Patrick seems fine with that too. He’s looking at the shattered remains of Mikey’s iPhone on the wood floor. Mikey misses the day when throwing a phone broke it into pieces instead of just cracking the stupid screen.

Patrick doesn’t seem bothered by the non-answer. “That’s fine. I’ll get your brother’s number off of Pete. He’s worried about you, you know?” Mikey scowls automatically. Patrick actually smiles wider to see it. “Yeah, I thought so. Don’t worry. It sounded like he knew better than to come over.”

Patrick turns and draws up the blinds to Mikey’s window half-way, just enough to left the white light of mid-day in through the glass. It chases away the shadows, illuminating the mess that is his room. Patrick shrugs when he sees Mikey still watching him.

“Eat your soup, Mikey,” Patrick says. Then he turns and walks out of the bedroom.

Strain as hard as he might, Mikey doesn’t hear him leave through the front door. 

For all that he’s been lying in bed Mikey hasn’t really been sleeping. It feels like he’s been walking around in a dream though, or something of a nightmare. Every solid thing he’s built his life around for the past decade crumbles every time he lifts his feet. So Mikey stops bothering.

When Patrick comes back into his room Mikey has no idea how long it’s been. He’s been drifting in and out of spiraling thoughts and blissful numbness for days now.

Patrick hums when he sees him still in bed, but doesn’t chide him. He just picks up the cold, untouched soup by the side of the bed and carries it off towards the kitchen, then returns with an empty basket he uses to pick up Mikey’s clothes.

Mikey can’t say how embarrassed he is. He knows the emotion is somewhere inside of him, but he can’t quite catch it. Even when Patrick picks up his dirty boxers Mikey doesn’t do much more than advert his eyes.

“Pete’ll be by later tonight,” Patrick says casually, reaching down and squeezing Mikey’s ankle. It’s such an odd spot to touch, like something his mom might have done just passing by. It jars Mikey momentarily into the moment.

“He doesn’t have to,” Mikey manages. Luckily he’s angled in such a way he can mostly see Patrick without having to move. He wants to see Patrick’s face. “You can go too.”

“I don’t really think you should be alone right now, Mikeyway,” says Patrick and it’s funny hearing Mikey’s old ridiculous nickname out of Patrick Stump’s lips. They were never particularly close before. Patrick squeezes Mikey’s ankle again, before hoisted the laundry basket to his hip.

He smiles again before he breaks for the door. “Besides, have you ever tried saying no to Pete Wentz on a mission? I’d rather try to stop a freight train.”

Mikey hears him from then on quietly puttering around the house. He doesn’t sing or anything like that, but he talks to himself, saying words that are mumbled by the time they reach him.

He’s left Mikey’s door open too. Enough so that Mikey can lie there and watch as Patrick comes up and down the hall, carrying baskets of clothes, dragging garbage bags full of empty take out boxes. Mikey never knew how to take care of him all by himself. He never thought he’d have to.

When Pete finally arrives he comes with less fanfare than Mikey was expecting. Mikey doesn’t even catch the moment Pete enters his house, a place Pete has never been despite living in the same city for years. He just feels the bed dip near his hip and opens his eyes to an older, blonder, sturdier-looking Pete Wentz climbing on top of his blankets.

“Hey Mikes,” Pete says, catching his gaze and giving him that same curling smile Mikey remembers all too well.

“Pete,” says Mikey, while something heavy lodges itself up his throat. Pete doesn’t make him say anything else though.

As many years as it has been, Pete’s body still fits curls against his. There is a blanket between them this time, not enough alcohol and too many missing memories, but Pete’s arms still know how to hold Mikey even if the weight of him is heavier.

In the doorway, Patrick looks on with a little smile. “One hour, Pete,” he calls.

Mikey can feel Pete’s answering nod against his neck. Then, surprisingly enough, a bud of curiosity blooms in himself as Patrick clears the doorframe.

“An hour for what?”

“A nap. Anything more and it fucks with my sleep schedule.” A nose nudges Mikey’s shoulder as Pete’s voice dips. “How are you, Mikeyway?”

It’s the second time he’s heard that nickname. It’s enough to make the years shrink.

“You heard?” Mikey says, lucid enough in that moment to want to know.

“Guess Gerard still has my number,” Pete confirms and nothing more.

Mikey is silent for a long moment, eyes on the doorway where Patrick had walked away, room too bright for the dark thoughts in his head.

“I sort of want to die right now,” he admits.

Pete’s arm tightens. “I know. I’ve been there. Trust me, I’ve been there.”

Mikey hadn’t been. Not when it was Pete’s band breaking up. Not when it was no doubt Pete curled up in a ball. It dawns on him that he doesn’t even know what happened with that. If Pete and Patrick and Joe and Andy are all cool or Pete is still missing limbs the way Mikey suddenly is— amputated, unable to stand on his own. There used to be days back when they were young when Mikey felt like and Pete shared a skull. He feels alone in his body with no one to share it with.

“I’m sorry,” Mikey mutters, overcome with a crash of guilt that breaks through the wall of apathy. He folds in Pete’s arms, trying to put distance between them that Pete’s grasp doesn’t allow. “Pete, fuck. I’m such a shitty friend.”

“Yeah,” Pete says. “I’ve been there before too.”

Just as quickly as the emotion came, it fades. His mind is out of synch. Mikey has known this empty feeling before, but never this deep. He stops trying to get away. He lies like the dead in Pete’s arms and wonders if he’ll wake up that way.

“We’ve got an hour,” Pete says low and soft into his ear, settling in. “We’ll figure it out.”

One hour later, Patrick politely knocks on the open door. Mikey blinks open his eyes startled to realize he’d actually fallen asleep. He feels the flex in Pete’s muscles as he stretches his legs out like a cat.

“Morning,” Patrick says, as the sun dips down somewhere over the ocean, washing Mikey’s bedroom in tones of pinks and purples. Patrick tracks his eyes and goes over to the window, opening it up all the way. He even slides the glass, letting in the crickets.

Mikey rolls over, away from it, and finds Pete on his side just watching him. Mikey freezes. He hasn’t actually looked at Pete properly yet, just that glimpse as he climbed into bed.

Pete looks good. Healthy. Golden. Clean. His hair is trimmed short and dyed light. His arms are thicker than Mikey’s ever seen them. He looks suddenly like a real adult in a way Mikey never would have expected.

Meanwhile, Mikey just feels thin and old and impossibly naive.

“I’ve got dinner warm in the living room if you’re up for it,” Patrick mentions offhand, dropping the basket of fresh laundry he’d brought with him onto the foot of the bed.

“I don’t—“ says Mikey, then stops. Clears his thought. Tries again. He hadn’t recognized his own voice. “You don’t have to do this.”

Patrick just shrugs. “Or we can stay in here, if you’re not ready. Just let me change the bed.” He holds up a fresh white sheet from the basket. He must have found it in the cupboard, put there by Mikey’s away cleaning service or some ex-girlfirend. He hadn’t even known he owned extra sheets.

“He’ll fight you on this,” Pete adds, already rolling off of the bed. “Trust me, he’s a stubborn little dude.”

And somehow that’s enough to do it. Mikey doesn’t so much as get out of bed as he lets Pete drag him from it, pretending not to all but carry him into the bathroom. Pete gets him mostly naked as Patrick makes the bed, popping by for just a moment to pass Pete clean sweats that he helps Mikey change into.

Mikey reaches for his toothbrush somehow of his own volition and pretends he can’t see himself grow pink in the mirror with the way Pete beams at him. He walks out of the bathroom mostly on his own and it feels like he’s run for miles by the time he collapses back to bed. Heaven must smell of laundry detergent. He wants to be buried in it.

And then there is real noise for the first time in his bedroom. Pete bounces to the TV across the room and jams in an actual disk into the player. Something of his smile causes Patrick to groan as he walks back in through the door.

“Please no.”

“It’s a classic, Patrick. A Christmas classic.”

“It’s March.”

“Well _Die Hard_ is Mikey’s favorite movie, isn’t it Mikey?”

Mikey’s favorite movie is so far away from his mind he can’t even pretend to find it. He doesn’t remember it being anything with Bruce Willis though. So he shrugs and Pete turns back on Patrick in victory.

“I _told_ you so.”

Patrick sighs, but it’s not really annoyed. Not angry in the way Mikey vaguely remembers from when they were just kids and Patrick’s pinched face would chase him around every time he climbed on their bus with Pete to fool around.

He looks different too, Mikey realizes. Grown up. Put together. Less self-conscious even as herolls his eyes and gives in. “Whatever, Pete. Just get in the bed.”

The mattress bounces as Pete does. Mikey hadn’t even noticed, but Patrick must have found extra pillows and piled them up on the headboard making it easy to sit up. It feels weird to do, especially as he’s under the covers. Intimate. But Pete just climbs in with him, jamming his feet somewhere under Mikey’s calves and settling against him.

Patrick comes over and and passes out three clean bowls from Mikey’s kitchen and plastic spoons. He pours for each of them from a styrofoam container of soup, then hesitates holding a third bowl while looking down at the two of them.

There’s room on the bed. It’s a pretty big bed. Mikey finds himself scooting out of the middle of it without much thought, while Pete reaches out a hand, and there’s Patrick tiny pleased smile as he climbs in.

They watch _Die Hard._ They eat soup. Mikey doesn’t get out of bed, and once the dishes are done, neither do the other two.

He’s not ready to get out of bed yet. The wound is still too raw, the world too unstable. But as the sky grows dark outside his window and as someone’s thumb rubs circles around the back of his neck, he’s not even sure who, he finds that’s okay too.

He’s not ready to get out of just bed yet, but tomorrow, with help, maybe he will be.


End file.
